Long Black Curl (28 page)

“Very likely. But he gets one chance, one offer. If he turns it down, then come back. We're not going to him on our knees, remember.”

“All right,” Bronwyn agreed. “And I'm in charge, right?”

“Yes.”

“Anything you say,” Junior said to Bronwyn, all smiles.

“Good. And remember, whatever differences you have here, you've both got the same goal on this trip, so help each other out.”

Junior nodded. Bronwyn shrugged.

“In the meantime … everyone else, keep an eye out. If you see her, call someone. Try not to be alone with her.”

“What about that nigger-boy she's got with her?” Macen Ward said.

“He's not our problem,” Mandalay said. “And Macen? Remember how people used to talk about
us
before you use words like that.”

“Sorry,” Macen said, chagrined.

“Get him here as fast as you can,” Mandalay said to Bronwyn. “If you need help, call Bliss.”

“We won't,” Bronwyn said.

“He'll come,” Junior agreed.

*   *   *

Bliss drove Mandalay home. The radio was off, and the only noise was the steady thrum of the truck's tires on the pavement.

At last Mandalay, still looking straight ahead, said, “Bliss, if we're not careful, there's going to be a war. And everyone in power, on both sides, will be in real danger. That includes you and me.”

“Which side are the night winds on?”

“They're still. Silent. Waiting.” She smiled a little, the way an ancient, ageless crone might when contemplating the follies of mortal men. “They want us to settle this ourselves.”

*   *   *

Later, Bronwyn Hyatt Chess sat with her back against the headboard while her husband Craig rubbed her feet. The baby in her stomach moved contently, stretching and curling, feeding off her mother's own contentment. The child would be special, and not just because her parents loved her so much. She embodied the future of the Tufa, however it ultimately manifested.

“I have to leave for a few days,” Bronwyn said at last.

Craig looked up in surprise. “Really? When did this happen?”

“Tonight. It's First Daughter stuff. Three days at the most, I think.”

“You think?”

“I'm sorry.”

“They
do
know you're pregnant, right?”

“I think they noticed. But damn it, I'm not incapacitated.”

“Don't get defensive. Can you tell me about it?”

“Being pregnant?” she deadpanned.

“The
trip,
you goof.”

“Not really.”

“Are you going by yourself?”

“No, a friend is going with me.”

“Bliss?”

“No. Junior Damo. You don't know him.”

“‘Him'?”

She snort-laughed. “This is, like, the most useless time
ever
for you to be jealous.”

“I'm not jealous, I'm concerned.”

“Well, don't be. I'm still a trained soldier, you know.”

He crawled onto the bed beside her and kissed her. “Will you call me?”

“I will.”

“And you think it'll only take three days?”

“I think so. It better not take much longer.”

He put his hand on her stomach, and the baby moved toward it, as if sensing that the man outside would be a major part of her life.

 

20

Byron Harley flexed his bad leg. The numb places along his skin tingled now that the brace straps weren't tied around them, but otherwise the deep, constant ache remained the same. He looked again at his watch, but it had stopped at the time of the crash; the hands under the shattered glass were frozen at 1:23
A.M
.

“You thinkin' hard, there, Byron?” Eli said.

“Just wondering what time it was. Whether it was close to morning yet. It's gonna be a busy day, I imagine, what with the police and everything. Plus I got to call my wife and let her know I'm all right first thing, so that she don't hear about it on the news.”

“We'll get you there.”

“I reckon I need to get back as well,” Fiddlin' John said. “My daughter's likely to be worrying about me.” He frowned a little. “Hey, ain't we talked about this before?”

“We talked about a lot of stuff,” Eli said.

“But no, we done had this exact same conversation … ain't we?”

The sin eater held up the jug. “Reckon you need some more of this to clear your head, don't you?”

“Reckon I do,” Fiddlin' John said with a chuckle, and reached for the jug.

Byron said nothing, but tried to puzzle through events. They
had
gone through that exact conversation earlier, hadn't they? Because that's when he found out Moonshine Kate was John's daughter, not his wife or girlfriend … right?

Before he could get any further, there was more frantic rustling from the woods. They watched as an overweight young man clutching a thin gray piece of metal or plastic staggered into the clearing. He was so out of breath, he wheezed, and like the redheaded woman earlier—there
had
been a redhead, right?—he was dressed all wrong for the weather. He leaned against the tree and managed to squeak out the word, “Help.”

“Sit down, son, you look plumb beat,” Eli said.

The man did, apparently grateful for the fire. He coughed as the smoke blew over him, then rubbed his bare arms. The strange gray box rested beside him on the log.

“Wh-where are we?” he asked. “Are we anywhere n-near N-Needsville?”

“Not too far away,” the sin eater said.

“Those fucking Tufa bastards,” the man said, muttering as he waited to warm up. “They ran me off into the woods, can you believe it? I asked them for help, and they got me even
more
lost!” He took out a small, flat device and held it up. The front of it glowed. Then he said, “Damn it,
still
no signal. Anyone got a phone that works out here?”

The other three looked at him blankly. He sighed and said, “All right, whatever. Can one of you take me to the nearest place with Wi-Fi, then?”

“What the hell is ‘Wi-Fi'?” Byron asked, suddenly annoyed by all the strangeness. “Is that some kind of food or something?”

“You don't know what Wi-Fi is?” the man asked in disbelief.

“Don't get smart with me, pudgy,” Byron said. He hated it when he felt stupid or inferior. “What's your name?”

“Fred Blasco. I'm a blogger. You might've heard of me? I do
Fred, White and Blue
?”

He waited eagerly, but the other three just stared blankly.

“Son, I don't even know what a ‘blogger' is,” Fiddlin' John said. “Is that got something to do with cutting down trees?”

Blasco sighed. “No. It's … like a news commentator. I give people the right perspective so they can evaluate what the liberal media throws out at them.”

Fiddlin' John chuckled and said, “Well, whatever it is you do, welcome. I'm John Carson.” They shook hands. “Care for a snort?”

Blasco stared at the jug. “Is that
moonshine
?”

“It sure ain't turpentine,” Fiddlin' John said, and passed the jug.

Blasco awkwardly tilted it, took a swallow, and nearly dropped the jug as he choked. Fiddlin' John guffawed and reached to take it. Blasco coughed and sputtered, the veins on his forehead standing out. It took him several moments to catch his breath again.

“Just take your time,” Byron said, suddenly sympathetic toward the young man. “I'm heading down the mountain at daybreak. You can come with me.”

Blasco sputtered to a stop, nodded, and croaked out, “Thanks. What's your name?”

“Byron Harley.”

Blasco smiled. “Nice to meet you, Buh—” He stopped in mid-word and stared. “What did you say your name was?”

Byron smiled. He was used to fans. “Byron Harley. Pleased to meet you.”

Blasco continued to stare. “Byron Harley? The musician?”

“Yes, sir.”

Blasco swallowed hard. “That can't … You can't be him.”

“It is kind of a weird place to find me, I'll admit.”

“No, it's … Byron Harley is
dead.
”

“The crash is already on the news, huh?” That meant Donna knew about it.

“Well … yeah. It's legendary.”

Byron reached for his leg iron. He had to get to a phone, to tell Donna he was okay. She was an emotional wreck on a good day; this would send her off the deep end. And she had little Harmony to care for. “It ain't just legendary, my friend, it's mythological. Fellas, I need to get down this mountain now. I don't care if it's dark. I've got to call my wife and let her know I'm okay.”

Eli said lazily, “Can't leave till sunup, I done told you that.”

“Well, we're damn sure doing it!” Byron roared.

They all jumped.

Blasco said, “Wait—what year do you think it is?”

“Year? It's 1958. Why?”

Blasco picked up the flat metal box and opened the lid. A TV screen came to life on it. Byron stared.

“Hold on, I have this saved in a file,” he muttered. There was a typewriter attached to the screen, and Blasco typed something on it. “I've been fascinated by Cloud County and the Tufa for a while now. Not sure what the government's got in mind, but they
have
to be involved in anything this secret. ‘Don't know where they come from,' my ass. And they think they can get rid of me by just chasing me off into the woods?” He looked up at Byron. “The plane crash in '58 was the biggest thing to happen here until Bronwyn Hyatt came home.”

“Don't get no Internet out here,” Eli said.

“Screw the Internet,” Blasco said. “You think I trust storing things in the cloud? The NSA has copies of all that shit. I keep my crucial stuff right here where I can put my hands on it, behind a firewall no government agency can ever breach.”

The screen lit up with pictures of Byron, Guy, and Large Sarge. Beneath them was a newspaper headline that said,
PLANE CRASH KILLS THREE STARS
.

“What the hell is that?” Byron asked.

“It's the newspaper from the day after your plane crash.”

Byron's fuzzy brain rushed to catch up. “It's … what? Tomorrow's newspaper? On TV?”

Blasco looked at him with an odd mix of awe and pity. “This,” he said slowly, as if talking to a child, “is a computer. They're much smaller now. And more powerful.”

“Now? What does
that
mean?”

Blasco licked his lips. “Dude, you're not gonna believe this, but … it's the twenty-first century. You've been dead for over fifty years.”

Byron stared at him. He should laugh, he should smack the guy, but something in the man's voice was more convincing than it should have been.

“What you saying?” Fiddlin' John said.

“He's just messing with you,” Eli said, and stood. “Come on, you two, I'll take you both to Needsville.”

“Fuck you!” Blasco said, and jumped up. “You're a Tufa, I'm not following you anywhere!” He looked back down at Byron. “You don't believe me? Look at this.”

He fumbled with the small computer, awkwardly trying to hold it, work the keys, and keep an eye on the sin eater. Then he turned the screen and said, “There. Is that not your wife and daughter? That was taken ten years after you died, at a tribute concert.”

Byron choked. There on the screen was Donna, but she was old now, and heavy, and looked somehow sadder than he'd ever thought possible. The girl he'd married, the firecracker in bed and the delightful companion on the road, was completely gone from her. And yet it
was her.

And next to her …

Harmony. His daughter. Tall now, and awkward, a teen wearing some sort of strange, wide-bottomed jeans and a blouse with a strange design, a stick-figure triangle inside a circle. She had a thick band around her head, like some Indian in a Western.

The caption read,
The widow and daughter of Byron Harley.
With the date,
June 1968.

And again, he had no doubt. This was
her.

He felt like he wanted to vomit.

“And wait, I've got … here.”

Another newspaper article appeared. It showed an old woman with gray hair, but an unmistakable smile. Harmony. Then the story around it registered.

It was an obituary notice.

Harmony was dead. The little girl whose giggle could make him forget all about the constant pain in his leg was gone. She'd lived an entire life without him, while he sat here drinking and playing music.

He managed to skim the article. She'd been married three times, arrested for drugs, and killed by her latest husband, who also took his own life and the lives of their two children—Byron's grandchildren, a boy and girl.

His chest ached as if it might explode.

He turned to the sin eater. “What the hell—”

He was gone. And so was Fiddlin' John Carson.

He looked around. There was no sign of which direction they'd gone. For all he could tell, they might've gone straight up. He grabbed Blasco's arm. “You're staying right here, fat boy.”

“You don't need him,” a woman's voice said.

They both turned. Bo-Kate Wisby stood at the edge of the clearing, casually leaning against a tree, her hands in her coat pockets.

“Who the hell are you?” Byron demanded.

“Your way out. I can take you back to the world, if you promise to help me, too.”

“Oh, yeah? You from the future, too? You going to take me to the twenty-first century?”

“I don't have to, Byron. You're already there.”

He laughed. This all had to be some weird-ass hillbilly joke. “What's in it for me?”